


Haunts

by somnolentblue



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Allerdale Hall, Dreams, F/F, Ghosts, Other, Post-Canon, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnolentblue/pseuds/somnolentblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Edith returns to Allerdale Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Febricant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/gifts).



> Content notes in end notes.

**In Death**

Jack Kerrigan and John Bell grunt as they haul Thomas' body out of Allerdale Hall. The method of conveyance is ignominious — Thomas sways between them, and she winces as he slides when one of them has to readjust their grip on his limbs — but it's effective, and that's all Edith can desire. Most of the village had refused to be involved. But Edith didn't want the corpses rotting where they fell, exposed to the rodents and other animals that scurry around the edifice, even in winter. So Thomas sways, as Lucille had before him, and two lanky teenagers convey him to the family plot on the grounds, to be laid to rest in the suppurating graves carved out of the clay while Edith waits in the main hallway, ensconced on her chair and bundled in throws. No service would be said — the vicar had refused, citing the inclement weather and his agéd bones — but perhaps her husband and his sister would find peace in the earth's embrace. 

As she waits for Jack and John to return with news of the completed burial, she contemplates the tasks before her. Alan has already gone to London, fretting about leaving her alone, no matter how tart her comments that if she can survive a murderous rampage she can survive a few days alone in the countryside. Her needs are few, and the little room at the post office suffices. No one is friendly, and the looks she receives alternate between pity and suspicion, but her money smooths the way, even if it can't convince anyone other than two teenagers, enamored with the reputation of the haunted manor, hushed whispers of scandals, and a fascination with a macabre, to attend to the prosaic concerns of moving two dead bodies. She suspects that there are more corpses, that the clay pits are lined with bones and decomposing flesh, but she can't pursue that line of investigation at this juncture, not without willing labor, and even Jack and John, for all their teenage recklessness, will not spend time in the lower levels. In a larger city she might have found medical students to undertake the task, or perhaps individuals fascinated with the forensic sciences, but those avenues were closed to her in the now. 

Now she will see the Sharpes buried and remove herself and her few things to London, where she will stay while sorting out matters with her solicitor and factors, dependent upon transatlantic communications and what information she had gleaned from her father at navigating business and the law. She will thank Alan and send him on his way with letters for those in Buffalo. She will write a new story, and she will see it published. 

She will keep the name Edith Sharpe, for it is hers by love and by blood.

**In Dolor**

It's disquieting, returning to Allerdale Hall, accompanied by her own servants and the engineer she has engaged instead of by her husband and his sister. Edith wonders what Mr. Gaynor thinks of this, her insistence that he come himself instead of sending a subordinate, the way she refuses to patronise a local inn and instead insists on two long, dark train journeys bracketing a single day at Allerdale Hall. He accepted her commission readily enough, and his reputation for discretion suggests that he won't publicly gossip about the queer American lady who wishes to tear down a manor house. However, she does not doubt that he speculates privately. 

When she and Mr. Gaynor emerge from the carriage that had conveyed them the last few miles, he studies the building. "I wish it to be demolished entirely," she says in the quiet. "I understand that it is common for owners of ancestral houses to have the foundations shored up and the edifice repaired when the funds for such work are available. I do not wish to preserve Allerdale Hall, and I would rather it be destroyed than continue to tempt the local children into mischief and have a tragedy befall in an unsound building." 

"Yes, Lady Sharpe," he says. 

"You have unfettered access to the building today. However, I warn you that the lower levels are unstable and the soundness of the floor on any level is questionable. I am going to retrieve some personal items; after that, you are empowered to dispose of everything that remains as you see fit." He glances at her, but he doesn't interrupt. "Any profit that you realize from the disposal of Allerdale Hall's contents is to be divided in equal shares amongst those who work on the project, from the lowliest runner to yourself." The stipulation is eccentric, but she hopes that it will make them think more charitably of her when they inevitably hear the unsavory rumors. 

She enters Allerdale Hall alone, Mr. Gaynor pacing around the building outside and her servants waiting for her summons. Little has changed since she left. The leaves might be thicker on the floor and the evidence of rodents might be more blatant, but the manor house hasn't been properly cared for in decades, and another year didn't make an appreciable difference. She climbs the stairs to Thomas' workshop, refusing to jump when the building creaks or start when a bird flies past her head. 

She pushes the door open, and it's as cluttered as she remembers. She's not sure which of Thomas' ideas are feasible and which are nonsense, but one of her father's friends in Buffalo will evaluate them. Mr. Carter will be honest, and he'll only endorse an invention that will earn money instead of endorsing everything in order to take her money to build it. 

She sits on Thomas' workbench and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. She takes deep breaths, counting to five with each inhale and exhale. She feels a caress on the back of her neck, but when she looks up and says "Thomas?" only silence greets her. 

She stands and looks around. There's nothing here that she wishes to keep for herself, nothing in Allerdale Hall that she wishes as a memento of her marriage. She'll have the workshop packed up and sent to Buffalo; everything else she consigns to the clay whence it came. 

**In Dreams**

Edith turns the taps, and the incessant drip of the faucet transforms, with a groan, to a steady rush of water. She holds her robe tightly closed, cold and wishing, yet again, that they could afford renovations that would make their daily lives more comfortable instead of reinvesting all of their profits in the firm. She takes comfort in the knowledge that there are profits now, unlike those first terrible years, but that does not warm her cold feet or prevent the chill from seeping into her bones.

The gushing water turns red, and she sighs. Everything stains, no matter how she tries to preserve her clothes and linens, and she grows tired of looking as if she belongs in Mr. Stoker's Dracula. Perhaps they can go to London this weekend, she and Thomas and Lucille, and Thomas could speak with the engineers while she and Lucille visit the modiste. (And they could make a sidetrip to that most discreet bookseller, although Thomas wouldn't need to know about that.) Le Sacre du Printemps is still at Drury Lane, and Edith wonders if the ballet is as primeval and arousing as the reviews intimate. 

The bathtub full, Edith slides off her robe and slips into the water. She submerges herself, opening her eyes and wondering if her father saw such a sight as he died, water tinged red. The thought no longer hurts — she thinks it most times she bathes, unless she has company — and she shakes it off as she emerges to take a breath. 

"One night, you will slip under the water and not come back up." 

Edith starts and twists around. She's not surprised that Lucille has come into the bath, but she wishes that Lucille would announce herself instead of slipping in with the shadows. 

"It would only be because you startled me and I fainted," Edith replies, leaning back against the bathtub and straightening her legs. She could just fit when stretched out. 

Lucille raises an eyebrow, her own robe slipping down her shoulders to pool at her feet. "I find that to be an unlikely turn of events," she says. "You didn't require smelling salts after the accident; I doubt such a banal surprise could render them necessary." She steps into the water, lowering herself down facing Edith. They take a minute to arrange themselves, legs intertwining and feet tucking up against the other, the required contortions practiced and easy. Steam curls around Lucille's face, rendering her familiar visage otherworldly. 

Edith reaches out to tuck an errant lock behind Lucille's ear, glad that she, too, can enjoy the all too rare treat of a hot bath. Edith closes her eyes, letting herself relax as she listens to the howl of the wind and the groan of the house and the rhythm of Lucille's breath. 

"Edith," Lucille says, "would you do something for me?" 

Edith hums an interrogative, and the water splashes as Lucille shifts. Edith opens her eyes to see Lucille shifting forward and reaching out, placing her hand between Edith's breasts. "Would you do something for me?" Lucille repeats.

Edith smiles. "Of course." 

Lucille smiles in return and shifts further, crouching over Edith, bracketed by Edith's legs, her other hand resting on Edith's shoulder. Edith looks up at her as Lucille hovers there, closing her eyes when Lucille remains in her awkward position without speaking. She's not going to let Lucille's penchant for melodrama mar her bath; she'll find out soon enough what lies behind Lucille's words. 

Lucille's weight shifts against her and pain rips through her chest. She contorts herself, but Lucille holds her down. She drags her fingernails down Lucille's back, but Lucille just laughs. "Thank you for your offering," she says, blood dripping down her face. Edith feels the bathwater lapping against her heart.

Edith gasps as she wakes, sucking in breath and frantically feeling her chest. It is whole, unmarred by Lucille's sharp teeth.

**In Daylight**

Edith's driver turns the engine off, and Beth rushes out of the car, leaving Edith laughing behind her. She remembers being so exuberant, but decades have passed since the last time she ran heedless of the consequences — or the state of her shoes. She'd made sure that Beth was wearing practical boots for their excursion to the clay deposits where Allerdale Hall used to loom, but she also knows Beth's uncanny ability for getting into everything and utterly ruining her clothing. 

Beth dashes back as Edith exits the car. "Aunt Edith!" she exclaims. "Look!" She thrusts her cupped hands into Edith's face and slowly opens them. A moth flutters between her palms, and Edith shivers. 

"Beth, what have I told you about wild things?" Edith asks.

"Wild things ought to be free," Beth recites. "But it's so neat! I've never seen one like this before!" 

Edith gives her a reproachful look, and Beth sighs. She releases the moth, and they watch it flutter off. "Good girl," Edith says, running her hand over Beth's hair. 

Beth rushes off again instead of replying, and Edith follows along behind her. Strange to think that she had once lived here, in this desolate countryside. The village still nominally exists, but the young men and women who ought to dwell there had either left or died, leaving only their parents and their parents' parents to watch the land reclaim the fields and buildings one by one. 

She catches up with Beth at the burial ground, and she sighs when she sees the damage the unstable ground had wrought on the tombstones. Thomas' has fallen, although Lucille's still stands proud. Edith runs her hand along it, watching Beth puzzle out the faded words. She looks so much like Alan, her grandfather, pouring over an obtuse medical journal that Edith smiles.

"Who's Lucille?" Beth asks. "She wasn't in your book."

"No, she wasn't," Edith replies. "She was my husband's sister. She loved Allerdale Hall a great deal, and I don't think she would have approved of my interpretation of it, literary license notwithstanding, so it seemed a kindness to omit her." 

"That makes sense," Beth says. This time, instead of rushing off she takes Edith's hand and starts leading her around. Beth spins tales about the fairies living in the overgrowth amongst the tombstones, and Edith thinks that it would be well-worth nurturing her creative talent. She asks Edith for stories about her time at Allerdale Hall, although she often slips and calls it Crimson Peak, and reimagines Edith's novel to suit her fancies and the landscape before them. She begs to hear more about the people who inspired Crimson Peak, but Edith demurs and misdirects to the best of her ability, honed by decades of writing and navigating polite society.

When they take out the picnic basket, Edith makes sure to shake out the blanket first. It's a muddy brown, and the inevitable clay stains won't ruin it. She lets Beth arrange their repast to her satisfaction, and they eat sandwiches and drink lemonade, the tartness refreshing in the unseasonable heat. Beth scatters the leftover crumbs for the birds, and she's delighted when Edith nudges her arm and points out some magpies investigating her offering. She squirms in place; it's obviously all she can do not to run over to see them up close, but she restrains herself. Edith grins and pulls her close. 

They wander the grounds for hours, and Edith can no longer tell where Allerdale Hall once stood. Future generations, like Beth, will only know it as a story, and, even then, only if they care enough to research the history of a minor novelist. They watch the sunset together, once more on the picnic blanket, and Edith knows that she won't visit again. 

**In Death (Redux)**

The piano music draws her, and Edith walks down the stairs slowly. She wishes that she had put her hair up — the wind is brisk today, and it's fluttering about her face and obscuring her vision — but that is a minor annoyance compared to the aches that permeate her body. She treads heavily and a floorboard creaks. The music stops, and Edith stills. It resumes, and she continues her journey, her long skirts rustling through the leaves. 

She makes her way to the front parlor, and the pianist stops, her back straight, her shoulders back, her gaze turning not. She resumes the melody, something dark, notes crashing against each other until Edith can take it no longer. She rushes across the room and slams a hand down on the keys. At the discordant noise, the pianist looks up.

"I wondered how long it would take," Lucille says. 

"How long what would take?" Edith asks, puzzled and wary.

Lucille starts playing again, children's tunes this time. "For you to invade my home once more. Less time than I had hoped, but more than I had feared." 

"Speak plainly," Edith demands, and Lucille says nothing. Instead the music shifts again, and Edith recognizes Marche funèbre. 

Edith looks around, taking in the faded furniture, the cold fireplace, the soft grey light of the windows. "This isn't right," she says. 

"It is all perfectly correct," Lucille replies.

"No," Edith says slowly, "no it's not. I don't belong here." 

Lucille says nothing, and Edith struggles to remember. She remembers an overwhelming cacophony, metal screaming and glass shattering. She remembers being jerked about. She remembers shouts and sirens. She remembers—

"I'm dead," Edith says, "aren't I." She sits down on the piano bench, ignoring the flashing of Lucille's eyes. "I'm dead, and I'm at Allerdale Hall." She laughs in disbelief. "How is this possible? I had this place destroyed." 

Lucille slams her hands on the keys and Edith jumps at the terrible sound. "You think that you can destroy Allerdale Hall?" she hisses. "You think you can tear down the work of centuries, of generations of my family, of the life we poured into this place? No, little butterfly, you are not so strong." She grabs Edith's hand. Edith tries to pull away, but Lucille holds it tightly. "You ignorant child. You came to Allerdale Hall in love—" she squeezes Edith's hand, and the ostentatious ring Edith wears bites into her other fingers "—and stayed in blood—" she draws Edith's hand to her face, as if Edith could ever forget the sensation of annihilating her features "—and you doubt this is where you belong? You are Allerdale Hall's mistress, Lady Sharpe, and that is not a role you can cast aside. It must be wrested from you, and you refused to give it up, even after you had razed us to the ground." 

Lucille crowds against Edith, but Edith refuses to move, even when she feels her bones creak in Lucille's grip. (Which is impossible, if she's dead, and yet the pain is acute.) Lucille pants, fierce in her anger, and Edith raises her chin and looks back. 

Allerdale Hall is hers, and Lucille will have to learn her place.

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: contains a non-graphic dream sequence where Lucille eats Edith's heart.


End file.
